


Earn Your Happy Ending

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dipper's an anxious nerd and needs to be protected, Fluff, Human!Bill, M/M, Older!Dipper, Some gore later on, triangle!Bill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-21 11:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4827959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rule Number One: Dipper Pines will always meet Bill Cipher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Rule Number One** : Dipper Pines will always meet Bill Cipher.

Always.  
___

Dipper Pines wasn't having a very good day.

At least, this was the conclusion that he had come to as he sipped at his lukewarm coffee, rubbing gingerly at his temples with his free hand. His tongue still throbbed slightly from scalding his mouth earlier, jumping the gun and taking a generous gulp of the drink before it was fully cooled in a desperate attempt to get some caffeine rushing through his system. The brat working the register- “Chris,” according to his name tag- had laughed at him then, and the brunet's cheeks _still_ flushed with embarrassment every time he happened to look up and accidentally catch the raven-haired teen's eye.

Chris, in response, simply flashed him a grin that somehow managed to be simultaneously sympathetic and teasing, only adding to his frustration.

With a sigh, he placed the empty cup back down on the table and squinted at the yellowed pages of his book. It was old, the paper delicate and brittle, with handwritten text that was bleeding at some points and faded in others. The fact that it was written in what appeared to be Latin didn't make it any easier to decipher, but Dipper was always up for a challenge- _usually,_ anyways. Today his focus seemed to be slipping through his fingers like grains of sand, and the longer he stared at the book, the more the messily written scrawl seemed to blend into an indistinguishable blur. The ever-present feeling of sleep deprivation that wouldn't stop gnawing at the back of his mind like termites wasn't doing much to help matters and he glared weakly at the empty paper coffee cup as though it was personally responsible for this somehow.

Lacking eyes, the coffee cup couldn't return the gesture. Dipper still flicked it over with one finger anyways, his mouth pressed tight into a thin, grim line.

It was Mabel's idea that brought him to the small, hipster-infested cafe in the first place. Mabel's suggestion that he left his “dusty old apartment filled with dusty old books” in favor of a change of scenery. He had spent nearly two weeks in the city already, and had succeeded in little other than memorizing the numbers of all of the nearest places to order takeout from. In Dipper's mind, there wasn't anything wrong with that, but his social butterfly of a sister took it as a _terrible_ waste of an otherwise perfect opportunity for him to enjoy himself. At first he had refused, but when Mabel slyly brought up the fact that working somewhere new _might_ help him snap out of the writing slump that had been hanging over him like a black cloud ever since he had arrived, he had no choice but to agree.

Somehow, even with thousands of miles between them, his twin never quite lost her knack for getting Dipper to do whatever she wanted. It was a talent- and a _terrifying_ one at that.

Unfortunately, the change of scenery had done little more than earn the brunet a burnt tongue and a truckload of embarrassment. He honestly didn't know how some people did it; the noisy environment only served to both distract him and make him feel paranoid, and he had quickly lost count of how many times he had glanced over his shoulder, afraid that someone was watching him.

At least the free wifi was nice, but free wifi didn't pay the bills, and it most certainly didn't offer him much in the way of inspiration. Writer's block was a terrible, terrible thing, but when combined with Dipper's anxious nature, it became downright _torturous._

Sighing again, the brunet reluctantly moved to close the lid of his laptop, deeming his trip to the cafe to be a massive waste of time- unsurprising, but disappointing nonetheless. He slipped off his reading glasses and was mentally debating between Chinese food and pizza for dinner, when he vaguely registered that there was someone in his way- someone standing in front of his tiny table, blocking his escape.

“You're Pine... You're _Pines,_ right?”

Gold. That was the first thing he noticed- in part because the stranger had leaned unnecessarily close when he spoke, filling his vision and blatantly invading Dipper's personal space. Gold was the shade of his hair, messily framing his face like long curls of sunshine. His eye was wide, searching, and colored like warmth and honey, framed by dark lashes and- what _else_ \- gold eyeliner. His other eye was missing, hidden behind blond locks and something dark that Dipper could only assume was an eyepatch of some kind. Due to their close proximity, he could make out faint freckles scattered across the stranger's olive skin, decorating high cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Upon that realization, he abruptly moved back, averting his gaze and trying to conceal his awkwardness with a cough. “I, uh. Yeah.”

When he finally mustered the will to look back, he was met with a wide, toothy grin that was a bit too mischievous for his liking. The man's gaze flickered downwards, and he reached out to tap one gloved finger on the yellowed pages of Dipper's book. “The Seed of the Prophet,” he began, his voice grave as though he was reciting some great prophecy, “shall sit the throne and drown in flame the Mountains of Man.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Dipper's eyes widened, and he craned his head over the book, gaze combing through the messy scrawl frantically. “It really says that?” His heart began to pound excitedly in his chest- what could it possibly _mean,_ he had to wonder. How could he have missed something so ominous and important?

The stranger stared down at him, his expression cryptic and stony for all of three seconds before his face was split by a smile. “Wow, you _actually_ believed that?” He asked, barking out a laugh while Dipper's face burned with embarrassment over being fooled so easily. “You're more gullible than I _thought!_ ” His ears, the brunet noticed, were pierced at least a dozen times each in a seemingly random manner, filled with rings of gold that clinked together softly when he moved. At the bottom of each was a gold triangle, standing out simply on account of how different they were in comparison to his other earrings. The uneven placement and sheer number of piercings made Dipper suspect he had done them himself.

That wasn't the only odd thing about his appearance, however; in addition to his excessive amount of jewelry, he was also dressed rather formally- _especially_ for someone visiting a simple hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. A sunshine yellow button up shirt with black slacks and suspenders? And who even _wore_ bow ties nowadays, anyways? Combined with his gloves, it was a getup that showed off very little skin, something he couldn't help but wonder about. Part of him wanted to chalk it up to the same eccentricity that every cafe regular seemed to exhibit, but something about him- whether it be his blatant disregard for personal space or absurd number of self-inflicted piercings- made Dipper suspect it was just part of his natural style.

Something clicked in the back of the brunet's mind. “How do you know my name?”

The laughter stopped, something that Dipper was admittedly quite thankful for, as in addition to having no concept of personal space, the man also apparently had no concept of an indoor voice, either. “Oh!” He reached behind him, pulling a worn, dog-eared book out of his back pocket, and placed it down on the table. _Guide to the Unexplained_ stared up at him from the familiar cover. “You're the author of this book, aren't you, kid?” He flipped to the very back cover just to be sure, and pointed at what the brunet quickly recognized as a picture of himself. Monochrome, stony-faced and looking about as far from Dipper as Dipper could possibly get- he _hated_ that photograph, but had been urged to use it anyways under the pretense of looking “professional.” He hadn't really argued much on it, despite Mabel complaining loudly about how strongly she disliked it- but _was_ proud of her twin, of course, for actually getting published- whenever the subject came up. He couldn't find it in himself to blame her.

“Yeah,” the brunet began, fiddling absentmindedly with his glasses, “that's me. Um, you can just call me Dipper. I'd prefer it, actually.” He held out his hand, and the blond's eye lit up with glee in response to the gesture, reaching out to take it.

“The name's Bill! Bill Cipher.” He shook his hand up and down once, twice, three times, before finally letting go and, without giving Dipper the chance to say anything, pulled up a seat. “Here,” he continued, pushing a fresh cup of coffee over that the brunet hadn't even noticed he was holding, “you look like you need this more than I do.”

Blinking, Dipper shot him a tentative, if grateful smile, before reaching out to take it. He took a sip, before immediately cringing at the taste- _how_ could coffee be black as night yet sweeter than sugar at the same time? His gaze flickered accusingly over towards Bill, but the blond's expression was innocent, indicating he either had an expertly-crafted poker face or genuinely didn't know his drink of choice was disgusting. Or, alternatively, both. “Thanks.” He managed to choke out, deciding that his need for caffeine largely outweighed his desire to spare himself from tasting such a terrible coffee-monstrosity. He took another generous sip, shuddering as it went down. “You've read my book, then?”

 _Obviously;_ the paperback looked like it had been through hell. That it had somehow managed to avoid falling to pieces in such a state was a miracle in and of itself. For whatever reason, the sight made something resembling pride swell up in Dipper's chest; clearly the book was well-loved, if it's appearance was any indication, and the idea that his work was worthy of receiving such attention in the blond's mind was enough to bring a smile to his face.

At least until another sip of the coffee from hell quickly wiped it away again.

“You could say I'm familiar with it.” Bill drawled, propping up his chin with one hand, eye lidded and shining with obvious amusement. “A lot of people are either really dry about this sort of thing, or they just don't take it seriously at all. But _you,_ ” and he paused to point at the brunet, “I like your style.”

“Well...” Dipper began, glancing down at the book in question, “I can tell.”

The blond hummed in response, before gesturing at the writer's- admittedly messy- work space. “So whatchya working on there, Pine ** _s_**?” There was something strange about the way that he said his name, putting extra stress on the S as if he nearly forgot about it- or was going to say something different, only to stop himself at the last second. 

“This?” He delicately shut the old, handwritten book, holding it up for Bill to inspect. The cover was leather, old, brittle and cracking in several places. There was nothing on the outside to indicate what it was, no title or name of the author. The blond reached out to grab it, and the brunet let him, clutching at his coffee cup instead if only for the sole purpose of having something to fill his hands. 

“Geez, this thing looks almost as old as _I_ am.” The blond remarked, lips twitching upwards at the corners of his mouth as though he had uttered something hilarious and was trying to hold back a laugh. Dipper couldn't imagine why; he didn't appear to be much older than his twenties. 

“I like to collect them.” The brunet explained, watching him turn through the yellowed pages. “Older books, grimoires, things like that. They really... Inspire me. I guess it doesn't hurt that they've inspired me to pick up learning a few new languages, too- mostly so I don't have to rely on translators to tell me what I'm looking at.” His gaze briefly flickered over to his shut laptop with a frown.

“Inspire you, huh?” Bill echoed, glancing over to him through dark lashes. “Do you really believe in this stuff? You know, magic, and the supernatural? _Demons?_ ”

“You read my book, didn't you?”

“Your book isn't you.” The blond shot back, snapping the leather cover shut in a manner that was sharp enough to make Dipper wince. “Your book isn't _you._ ” He repeated, softer this time, and with more stress on the final word. “Anyone can make up stories for a living. There's an entire genre dedicated to it- you've heard of fiction, right, kid?” Though the question was clearly rhetorical, he still felt compelled to nod, regardless. “Lying is easy- believing, now _that's_ the hard part. So do you actually believe in what you're writing about, or are you just into weaving tall tales for the hell of it?”

The brunet opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, and then pretended to be very interested in his cup of coffee instead. A soft thump told him Bill had returned his book, placing it gently on the table as if to make up for his earlier roughness. Was this supposed to be some sort of unexpected test of character? It sure _felt_ like one.

“I do.” It took him a moment to register that he was the one speaking. Clearing his throat, Dipper glanced over to the blond briefly, trying and failing to decipher the look on his face. “I do believe- in the supernatural, I mean. It's... Kind of hard for me to explain why.” He paused, if only to gather his thoughts- or, to be more precise, gather his thoughts and figure out a good way to voice them without coming off as though he was crazy. “I've always felt like there must be... Something out there. Something to explain the unexplainable- maybe there really is a monster that goes bump in the night, and we just haven't found it yet. I mean, there have been so many people throughout history claiming to see so many different things, and even if a lot of it is just the result of scared humans jumping at shadows and being naturally superstitious, it can't all just be one big coincidence, right?”

He paused to take a deep breath, fingers drumming tunelessly on the side of his coffee cup. “I don't know. Does that all sound strange? I've never had any personal experiences in my life before; I've never actually had anything happen that validates that point of view, or proves to me that there really is such thing as magic and demons and all of those other  things in my book, but it feels more ridiculous to me to just assume that we're alone and this world is mundane and boring and... It would be kind of disappointing to me if the place we live in really was that bland. I don't want to accept that reality if I don't have to.”

A hesitant glance at his light haired companion. “Does, uh. Does that make me sound crazy or something? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get so... _Weird_ on you, it's just a thought that I've been mulling over for a while now.”

“ _Nope!_ ” Bill replied, intentionally popping the P. “Weirdness is in the eye of the beholder, but I don't think that's weird at all! In fact,” somehow he was capable of winking with only one visible eye, “magic is _practically_ what I do for a living!”

“Oh.” Dipper blinked, brow furrowing. “Are you a magician, or...?”

“Yeah!” The sudden shout was nearly enough to startle him out of his seat. “Yeah, sure, let's go with that!” And before the brunet could say anything in response, he was suddenly leaning over, reaching behind Dipper's ear to pull out a small, rectangular square of paper from seemingly nowhere. “Here, take it!” The writer went cross-eyed briefly, before leaning back to squint at the business card.

He didn't need his reading glasses to see what was printed upon it's surface, as there were only two words- **_“BILL CIPHER,”_** in large, elegant text. Beneath his name was a small drawing of what could only be described as a strangely dapper Illuminati symbol with tiny arms and legs. Dipper reached out, accepting the card from the blond and taking note of how the gold ink it was printed with shimmered ever so slightly as he moved the paper back and forth. “The... Triangle-guy is cute?”

“Do you think so?” He took notice of how amused Bill seemed to hear that and shot him a curious look, complete with raised eyebrow. The blond's poker face was back, however, so it was impossible to gauge what he was thinking.

“Uh, yeah.”

They fell into a brief silence after that, Dipper pocketing the business card and slowly finishing off his coffee with tiny sips. It might have tasted terrible, but he could practically feel the energy from the caffeine buzzing through his veins, so he supposed it was worth the suffering. 

“If you're interested in books,” Bill began suddenly, idly tracing scratches on the table with one finger, “I know a place.”

“Oh, uh, I already did a book signing at-”

“I'm not talking about a chain bookstore.” The blond said, cutting Dipper off as if he already knew what he was going to say. “It's more of a... Privately owned business.”

He blinked curiously at his wording. “I see.” Well, it couldn't hurt to take a look, right? “Then in that case, I guess I'd love to check it out at some point.”

“Yeah, sure!” Bill said, abruptly getting to his feet and stretching. He reached over to grab his copy of the Guide to the Unexplained and pocketed it, shooting Dipper a grin. “Aah, not right now, though; I've got places I need to be, lives I need to ruin. You know, regular meatsack stuff!” He raised one gloved hand to wave. “Until next time?”

Dipper smiled weakly, mirroring the gesture with his own hand. “Until next time.”

It wasn't until long after Bill had left the coffee shop that Dipper realized they had all but agreed upon meeting again for a second time.

Dipper also realized that a part of him, no matter how small, wasn't exactly opposed to the idea.

___

He made his way back to his apartment later that night, a grease-stained takeout bag clenched in one fist. He climbed up several flights of stairs, tripping only once or twice over his own feet in the process and was greeted by a dark, dusty room devoid of life- home now, the brunet had to remind himself, and not for the first time.

He ate alone, idly flipping through an old mystery novel so cliché he could see the “shocking” plot twists coming from a mile away.

When he slept, his dreams were meaningless, indecipherable and curiously gray, and he strained to recall anything about them when he woke the next morning.

It probably wasn't important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory time!
> 
> My parents are going away for five days straight, leaving me home alone in an empty house with only two Siamese cats and a parakeet for company. So in what is half an attempt to distract myself from feeling lonely and half a shot at doing something productive, I decided to sit down and give writing something long and multi-chaptered a crack.
> 
> I pitched three potential ideas to a good friend of mine, and he chose this one for maximum suffering.
> 
> Buckle up your seat belts everyone, it seems innocent enough now, but we're about to go on a wild ride. (I just hope it doesn't disappoint!)
> 
> As a side note, my Mom actually does the same piercing-thing with her ears that Bill does. I have no idea how she manages it; her pain tolerance is absolutely crazy.


	2. Chapter 2

“Remember, it's hot.” Chris gently reminded him a few days later, lips twitching upwards in a smile. “You might want to wait a few minutes before you drink it.”

Dipper, who was most certainly _not_ moving to take a sip of his steaming hot coffee, paused for a few seconds just to scowl at him. “I wasn't going to.”

Was it ridiculous to keep coming back to the same hipster-infested cafe day after day, blowing his hard-earned money on overpriced drinks and accomplishing absolutely nothing in the way of productivity? Probably, but the brunet wasn't willing to admit to that much, just as he wasn't willing to admit to the _real_ reason why he kept returning to the coffee shop despite it turning out to be, thus far, a massive waste of time.

His gaze swept through the room, but he failed to spot yellow curls and golden jewelry nestled in amongst the various patrons loitering about the cafe. Frowning slightly, Dipper tried and failed to keep his shoulders from slumping slightly in disappointment. He wasn't looking for Bill- _obviously_ not. After all, he barely knew the guy.

Still, he wouldn't have exactly been against the idea of seeing him again.

“ _Sure_ you weren't.” Chris drawled, snapping the brunet out of his thoughts. The teen smirked, leaning over the counter and propping his head up lazily with both hands. There wasn't anyone in line behind Dipper, no managers breathing down his neck at the moment; he could afford to be unprofessional. “You know, it says so right on the cup- _caution, contents will be hot._ It's in big letters. On the cup. Right there.”

“I know how to _read._ ” Dipper shot back, huffing under his breath and mentally vowing to never give him a tip as long as he frequented the coffee shop. “That was just a one time thing. I was _tired,_ okay?”

“Hey, hey, no need to get testy with me, buddy; I'm just trying to be _helpful_ here.” He stood up straight, holding both hands in front of him defensively. “And, well. You know. Saying that you technically can't sue us just because you got greedy and scalded yourself.”

“Your customer service is amazing.” The brunet muttered dryly. “Is this your first job?”

The teen opened his mouth to reply, but was distracted by the sound of something- or someone- rapping on the window three times in quick succession. “I believe _that_ belongs to you?”

Dipper raised an eyebrow in response, following his gaze over to the source of the noise. “I... Oh.” A brief pause, and then it clicked. “ _Bill?!_ ”

It certainly seemed so; the blond had his face pressed up obnoxiously close to the glass, knuckles raised in preparation to knock again. When he realized Dipper had noticed him, he grinned brightly, showing off a mouthful of  too many teeth. “Hiya, Pines!” He chirped, voice muffled and breath leaving puffs of white on the window. “Fancy meeting you here! Did you miss me?” Each time he spoke, the glass fogged up more and more until his face was nearly concealed. Noticing this, Bill stepped back, frowned, and decided it was easier to head for the door rather than continue the conversation from the outside.

“Just kiss already.” Chris muttered in the background, rolling his eyes. Dipper sputtered unintelligibly in response, and opened his mouth for a- what was almost guaranteed to be pitifully weak- comeback, but the ringing of the bell signaling someone had entered the cafe was enough to draw his attention elsewhere.

“Hey, Bill.” He decided to say instead, smiling weakly at the blond as he made his way over. He was wearing a white button up shirt today, and a yellow sweater vest that matched his hair. The black gloves were present once again, all of his skin from the neck down concealed underneath layers of fabric. “Are you here for coffee, too?” The brunet had to suppress a shudder at the memory.

“Who, me? Ah, no.” Bill shrugged. “I noticed you through the window, so I came in to talk to you.”

“That's called _stalking._ ” Drawled the peanut gallery behind the register. 

“Well, I'm glad.” Dipper replied, pointedly raising his voice in an attempt to drown out Chris. “I wanted to see you again.”

“Oh yeah?” The smile that spread across his face made the brunet avert his gaze, if only due to how happy he looked to hear that.

“I, uh. Yeah.” He faked a cough, suddenly uncomfortable. “Oh, do you remember that bookstore you were telling me about the other day?”

“Ooh, you mean the creepy one?”

He couldn't recall Bill describing it as particularly creepy before, but he let it slide. “Yeah, that one. Do you wanna...?” Dipper allowed the question to trail off, glancing at the blond shyly. He didn't, after all, know whether he was busy or not; it would have been selfish to monopolize his time out of the blue, even if he had expressed nothing but enthusiasm at the idea of spending time with the writer previously. “If you don't have anywhere else you need to be right now, I mean. It's all up to you.”

If he was fearing rejection, then his anxiety was unwarranted; Bill grinned widely in response, looping an arm around Dipper's and headed for the door. “I thought you'd _never_ ask!” He said, as the brunet stumbled alongside him, trying to avoid spilling his hot coffee. “You want it, you got it; one date with dusty wood pulp coming up!”

“Have fun, you crazy kids.” Was the last thing Dipper heard before he was tugged out of the shop. Deciding to sacrifice his maturity in favor of being petty, he stuck out his tongue as a farewell.

___

“Well... You did say it was creepy.”

“ _Isn't_ it, though?!” If it was coming from anyone else, Dipper almost would have called his tone forced; no normal person could possibly show so much enthusiasm over a store that, quite frankly, looked more like it belonged in Diagon Alley than on a mundane city street. He was quickly coming to realize, however, that Bill was by no means a normal person.

“How did you even find this place?” He drained the last of his lukewarm coffee and tossed it into a nearby trashcan, turning around to stare at his eccentric companion. The blond was looking up at the building, hands clasped together in front of his chest in a clear exaggeration of joy.

“I have a lot of free time on my hands.” Bill explained with a shrug, before reaching out to grab Dipper's wrist and lightly tug him towards the book store. “Now come on, kid! You're not getting any younger!”

Dipper opened his mouth to reply to that- because, honestly, if his previous remarks were any indication, Bill had no right to poke fun at him about his age- but decided it wasn't worth the trouble, following him inside.

He wasn't really sure what he expected to find when he entered, though the brunet was somehow surprised, yet not at all at the same time by the sight that met him. 

It was larger than he had originally assumed, with the walls painted in a faded shade of gray-blue that miraculously managed to be both simultaneously comforting and gloomy- presumably that had something to do with the lighting, or lack of. The floor was wooden, though uneven and warped as though to suggest it was very old, with a small welcome mat in front of the entrance that looked like it went out of style two Halloweens ago. There were shelves, as to be expected of any bookstore, atypical or not, though the books on them didn't seem to be organized in any particular order. If anything, they were shoved in simply wherever it seemed like they would fit.

To anyone else, the mess might have been seen as irritating and unprofessional. To Dipper, however, it held a certain charm that could only be explained by someone with a deep love of books and an appreciation for atmosphere.

The brunet breathed in, taking a moment to simply enjoy the smell of old paper, before shooting his companion a smile. As “creepy” as it might have supposedly been, the writer felt right at home.

“Do you like it?”

“I _love_ it.” And with that, he wandered deeper into the store, passing by a lone employee manning the register- a young woman who, quite frankly, seemed more interested in her Stephen King novel than her actual job- and quickly managed to get lost within the disorganized shelves. He could hear the click-clack of Bill's shoes as he followed him, a hand ghosting lightly across his back as the blond wandered by. Dipper smiled at that, though he couldn't quite place why, and reached out to grab a book.

Time to do some serious browsing.

It wasn't always easy to tell what he was looking at, squinting at the leather spines as he combed through the shelves. Not every book came with a title, and some of the few that did were faded and all but impossible to read. Occasionally, something would catch Dipper's eye, and he would flip through a few pages, either placing it back where he had found it or tucking the tome under his arm if it met his approval. It wasn't long before he managed to amass an impressive stack of future reading material- enough to last him for a while, at least.

Here and there, Bill would pass by, stopping long enough to shove a book in his face before disappearing into the shelves without explanation. His picks ranged from thick, mysterious hardcovers written in unfamiliar languages that the blond assured him were absolutely fascinating, to old, dusty guides filled with hand drawn sketches of eldritch monsters, the likes of which Dipper never would have imagined in his wildest dreams.

“I feel like I'm going to accidentally pull out something bound in human skin.” The brunet joked, trying to adjust his reading glasses without accidentally smudging them with dusty fingers.

“Hmm, well, I haven't seen the Necronomicon yet, but I'll tell you if I find it.” Bill replied helpfully. “Ooh, _ooh,_ but _this!_ Pines, you **_need_** this!” A gloved hand shot over the top of the shelf, clutching a thin, unmarked book with a reddish brown cover.

“What is it?” He asked, taking the book and flipping through it's pages. It didn't take him very long; there weren't many, though his brow still furrowed in confusion, regardless. “What are these... _Symbols?_ ” A pause. A pair of eyes narrowing. “These _are_ symbols, right? What are they?”

“Magic, _obviously._ ” Bill poked his head over the top of the shelf, visible only from the nose up. Dipper got the creeping feeling he wasn't standing on his tiptoes as much as he was climbing up the bookcase to look at him. If the woman manning the register had a problem with it, she didn't say anything. That, or she was simply to engrossed in her novel to actually care. “Well, runes. They're practically the equivalent of... Aah, what are those rectangular interlocking foot-torture devices little meatsacks like to play with?”

It took him a moment to translate what he was quickly coming to know as Billspeak into plain English. “... Are you talking about Legos?”

“Yes!” He made a wide, sweeping gesture with both hands and nearly fell off the shelf as a result. “Magic Legos.”

“Magic Legos?” Dipper echoed dryly, unable to keep the disbelief out of his tone.

“Magic Legos!” A pause. “Well, kind of. There's more than one kind of magic, kid! Runes are usually used for binding magic; you just set 'em and forget 'em. Combine them together in a circle; the more you use, the more intricate the patterns become. The more intricate the pattern, the stronger they are. Basically. Those are simplest terms I can narrow them down to, anyways; it’s pretty complicated stuff!” He shook his head. “They're to know good in a pinch, though- you can even scrawl them in _blood!_ ”

“ _Riiiiight._ ” He snapped the book shut, arching an eyebrow skeptically at the blond. “And this is supposed to be _real_ magic?”

“Didn't I just say that, Pines?” And though Dipper couldn't see the lower half of his face, something about the tone of Bill's voice just told him he was grinning smugly. “I am a _magician,_ remember?”

Despite not believing a word about the supposedly magical properties of what looked like a bunch of scribbles someone doodled in their journal for kicks, he still brought the book up with him to the register. Perhaps it had something to do with Bill's enthusiasm- Dipper had to admit he didn't have the heart to put away any of the books the blond had picked out for him, after all. Either way, it would at least make a nice addition to his personal book collection.

A very... _Very_ expensive addition, as he soon found out.

“These cost _how_ much?!” Dipper exclaimed, paling at the thought of how many meals he would need to substitute with ramen noodles in order to balance his suffering budget. 

“It's okay.” Bill cut in before the brunet managed to throw himself into a panic. “I can pay for it.”

“You can't do that.” Unfortunately, all he succeeded in was turning the brunt of Dipper's stress onto himself. “That's- the _price?_ Bill, that's a _lot_ of money, especially just to spend on-”

“You're worth it.” The blond said before he had a chance to finish, the money already in his hand. And then, in a sing-song voice he added, “I'm paying for the books, and you can't do a thing to stop me~ Just try- I _dare_ you.”

“Well...” He bit his lower lip, shoulders slumping in defeat. “At _least_ let me pay you back somehow. It doesn't have to be in money. I'd just... Feel _really_ guilty if you blew all of this cash on me and I didn't do anything to repay your generosity.”

“Is that so?” There was an ominous glint in his eye, something that made Dipper immediately regret his offer. While the woman working the register bagged his purchases, the blond reached over to grab a free bookmark- or at least what the writer hoped was free- and a pen. “Alright, if you _insist._ ”

He leaned over the counter to write, though what exactly, the brunet wasn't quite sure; he blocked Dipper's view with his free hand whenever he tried to check. “You're left handed.”

Bill let go of the pen, apparently having finished writing. “Huh?”

“You're left handed.” Dipper repeated. “You know there's a lot of superstitions out there about left handed people; the left hand side is supposed to be the evil side- evil spirits lurk over the left shoulder. Things like that. It's all pretty ridiculous, honestly.” He shot the blond a hopeful smile. “I just... Thought it was interesting?”

Bill stared at him for a few long, uncomfortable seconds, and he could practically feel the smile melt off of his face. What if he had accidentally offended him somehow? The _last_ thing Dipper wanted to do was upset the guy who had just spent a small fortune on him- who had been nothing but weirdly _kind_ to him, albeit in his own eccentric way. Just as the writer started to internally panic, his companion spoke. “Neat!”

“Wh-”

The bookmark was shoved in his direction before he could get a single word out, successfully distracting him from that particular train of thought. “Take it.”

Dipper blinked, grabbing the piece of paper in question and holding it away from his face. “Is this... A phone number?”

“ _Brilliant_ deduction there, kid! It's mine, if you were wondering.” He stuck out his thumb and pinkie finger. “Call me? Or, you know, text me. _Whatever_ it is you meatsacks are into these days.”

“Is that all?” He stared at the digits scribbled upon the bookmark, already trying to commit them to memory. A few seconds later, the brunet looked up, his expression shy, yet undeniably happy. “I'd love to.”

They left the book store after that, wandering aimlessly for a time and talking pointlessly about nothing in particular. Despite that, it was nice- really nice, actually; it had been ages since he last had the chance to simply hang out with someone, and even longer still since he had the chance to do so with someone who wasn't related to him. And when the streetlights flickered to life above them with an artificial glow, and they both came to the silent conclusion that it was time to part ways, Dipper honestly felt sad to see Bill go. Whether he was willing to admit that much to himself was another story entirely.

The blond, in turn, actually appeared to reach out to him for a brief moment, only to stop himself at the last second and play it off as a wave. “Don't get lost on your way home!” He said, which was apparently as close to a goodbye as Dipper was going to get. When he dropped his arm and moved to leave, their fingers brushed for a split second.

And then he was gone, disappearing into the crowds of people that flowed on either side of them like the currents of a river.

Dipper's chest hurt from the sudden loneliness that threatened to consume him, and he didn't know why.

___

The room was dark and empty- and almost eerily so at that, possessing nothing in the way of personal belongings. No rugs, no dressers or tables, and with not a speck of dust to be found. The only light came from several flickering candles, arranged in a neat ring and dripping wax puddles onto the hardwood floors. That was alright, though; the one who had set them there in the first place really couldn't care less about the mess. They wouldn't be using the room for very long, anyways, having only temporarily “liberated” it for their needs.

They watched as their surroundings, what little there were, shifted to the familiar gray of the mindscape, and turned their attention back to the ring of candles. There was magic buzzing through their veins- a wonderful feeling if they had ever known one- and they couldn't help but smile just a bit despite themselves.

A triangle appeared, one that they recognized quite well, followed by an eye.

And then Bill Cipher popped into existence looking, actually, quite furious if the fiery red of his surface and narrowed gaze was any indication. The summoner wasn't exactly surprised by the sight, and simply raised one hand in a casual wave. There was, after all, no reason not to be civil. “Hey, how are y-”

 **“YOU!”** The dream demon cut them off, his voice otherworldly and echoing. His hands curled into tiny fists, eye glancing down briefly at the runes scrawled meticulously onto the floor below, keeping him trapped within the confines of the circle. No mistakes that he could see- _ugh,_ what a hassle. Of course they knew their stuff; it was ridiculous to hope otherwise. “You have some _real_ nerve pulling a move like this, you know that?! You could ruin _everything.”_

The summoner observed him in silence, fingers slowly curling downwards when their wave wasn't returned. Well, they supposed that much was to be expected. “Hello to you, too.” They muttered under their breath with a huff. “Don't blame me for taking precautions; I knew you were going to throw a fit over this. We were going to have this chat sooner or later, anyways. So now that I have you as my captive audience,” a brief wave at the runes, “let's talk.”

The demon watched them for a moment, his body fading from angry red back to his usual yellow- more out of grim resignation than the dissipation of his justified rage. His eye, however, remained dangerously narrowed, and it was clear he wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of having a little chat with the individual keeping him there against his will. “About what?”

“Isn't it obvious?” The summoner grinned, looking up at Bill with a gaze filled with delight. “Dipper Pines, of course.”

___

That night, Dipper's dreams trembled with rage, and yet he still couldn't escape the gray nothingness that had consumed them. He wandered through the colorless expanse, alone, despite feeling as though he was still being watched carefully by something just barely out of his sight.

When he got up the next morning, his legs ached like he had spent the night walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magic Legos. Seems legit.
> 
> (It's okay Bill, I'm left handed, too.)


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Hmm...”  He had to crane his head back to look at the blond, watching him carefully walk across the top of a brick wall with his arms out like he was on a makeshift balance beam; apparently simply using the sidewalk like any other normal human being wasn't interesting enough for him. “That depends on the question. I _might_ have to charge you if it's stupid~”

“Whatever happened to there being no such thing as a stupid question?” Dipper muttered, rolling his eyes with a small, good-natured smile. “It's about dreams- is that an inquiry worth occupying the _great_ Bill Cipher's invaluable time?” He made a show out of fluttering his eyelashes, one hand placed dramatically over his heart.

Bill hummed under his breath, pretending to consider the brunet's words, before hopping down onto the sidewalk with a clack. “You have no idea who you're talking to, Pines. As far as dreams are concerned, I'm an expert! No, I'm **_the_** expert!”

“Is this in addition to your vast stores of supposedly _real_ magical knowledge?”

“Mmmyep!” He flashed him a grin. “So what's eating you, kid?”

Dipper opened his mouth to reply, hesitating only when he realized he wasn't quite sure what to say. “I've just been having some really weird dreams... For a while now, I guess, and it's always the same thing every night.” He glanced over at the blond, but his expression was impossible to read- it figured. “I know that I'm dreaming when it happens, I can just _tell,_ but there's never anything there, and I can't wake myself up, no matter how hard I try. Everything is gray and suffocating and... It feels almost like I'm in a really big box, but I can never find the edges, even if I spend the entire night just walking around.”

He sighed, rubbing his arms as though an unnatural chill had settled into his bones. “It probably sounds crazy, but I don't really know what to make of it. I was hoping they would stop eventually, but it's been a while now and nothing has changed...” A frown. “I'm starting to think that maybe _I'm_ just the one that's crazy.”

Bill watched him for a moment, butterscotch-colored gaze still frustratingly indecipherable. “Humans really have a weird habit of putting a lot of emphasis on pointless concepts like sanity and morality when they should be worrying about other things. Bell bottom jeans, for example! Those are _atrocious-_ did you hear they're coming back in style?” He made an exaggerated show out of gagging while Dipper watched on, simultaneously amused and clueless at the same time. “Have you ever heard of lucid dreaming, Pines?”

The sudden question caught him off guard. “Well... Yeah, obviously.” The brunet raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I'm having lucid dreams of weird... Monochrome nothing?” Dipper felt vaguely insulted by the idea that the inside of his slumbering mind was so empty. He frowned to himself as they turned into an alleyway, taking a shortcut the blond had insisted would get them to the usual cafe in half the time; as much as Dipper disliked the crowded, hipster-infested coffee shop, he secretly feared he was becoming addicted to their overpriced drinks.

“Have you tried doing anything other than walking around before?” The brunet didn't reply, but Bill continued speaking, regardless, gauging his response simply from the look on his face alone. “Maybe you should give it a crack next time. Who knows what could happen? Well, either that or maybe you _are_ just crazy!”

“Bill!” Dipper punched his arm playfully, unable to keep down a laugh. There was a lightness in his chest, quickly raising his mood; in his own strange way, the blond somehow knew exactly what he needed to hear. 

“What? Aren't all the best people?”

He had a witty comeback right on the tip of his tongue, but it died in his throat when the sound of shattering glass managed to catch his attention. Slowing down, the brunet glanced over his shoulder, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise- it didn't take him very long to figure out.

They weren't alone.

Dipper wasn't quite sure when the man- at least he assumed it was a man, from the broadness of his shoulders and what little of his face was visible- had decided to follow them, but he looked absolutely terrified. Face pale, limbs trembling and most of his body swallowed up by a large, dark hoodie that definitely needed a wash- or, frankly, to be _burned_ \- the stranger practically screamed suspicious. His attention was momentarily fixated on the glass bottle he had apparently knocked over on accident, though he quickly looked up, meeting the writer's gaze as if sensing that he was being watched.

“Hey man, are you okay?” Dipper called out, trying his best to be best to be civil despite the creeping feeling that things were about to go terribly wrong. Because nothing spelled trouble quite like meeting an ominous stranger in a cramped alleyway who looked awfully apprehensive and about as Not Okay as one could get. He was vaguely aware that Bill had stopped beside him, arm curling protectively around his waist, though he didn't want to take his eyes off of the unfamiliar man to see what expression he was making. 

“I... I don't...” The stranger was muttering, drawing closer with timid steps, and for a moment, Dipper actually felt a pang of pity for him, because he clearly didn't know what he was doing. That pity quickly faded, however, after a glint of metal in the man's right hand sent a cold chill up his spine. “I don't want any trouble.”

The brunet wanted to run, but the arm around his waist was keeping him from moving. He _also_ wanted to know what Bill was thinking, why he was keeping him there and why he didn't seem to be even remotely intimidated, but he feared the consequences if he took his eyes off of their potential mugger. “ _I_ don't want any trouble, either.” He said instead, trying to keep his voice as level and soothing as possible despite the growing urge to panic. “You don't need to do this.”

“ ** _Don't!_** ” The sudden shout caused him to wince. “Don't try to talk me down from this. I'm n-not... You can't understand what I'm going through. I _need_ the money.” A flash of silver, something sharp and too close for comfort. “Just hand over everything an-!”

He abruptly went silent when Bill reached out casually and wrapped his free hand around the knife blade, squeezing tight. “Nah. Not interested.”

There was a tense silence. Both Dipper and the stranger stared at him incredulously, as though neither could quite comprehend what just happened.

The would-be robber came back to his senses first, yanking on the knife. In response, Bill tightened his grip, and though his gloves were made out of what the brunet had always assumed were leather, he could still see thick drops of blood drip down onto the asphalt. Panicking for a whole new reason, Dipper dared a glance at his companion's face, finding his expression calm and impassive but with his single eye blazing with a dangerous cocktail of several different emotions- excitement, possessiveness, rage, and countless more, each one more intense than the last.

“Bill...” The writer began, his tone uncertain. In response, the blond drummed the fingers of his free hand against Dipper's hip to the tune of something he couldn't quite place but was strangely familiar with nonetheless. 

With one more futile jerk, the stranger let go of the knife, stepping back and staring at Bill with wide, bloodshot eyes. Teeth worrying his lower lip, he abruptly turned around, tugging his hood up higher over his head and dashed out of the alleyway.

“That addiction is going to be the end of you!” The blond called, his voice unsettlingly cheerful. “ _Literally!_ ” He turned his attention back to Dipper. “Anyways, what were you going to say?”

In response, the brunet stared, eyes wide and lips parted slightly, a dozen unspoken questions flashing through his mind. In the end, the only thing he could choke out was, “ _B-Bill?!_ ”

“Yeah? That's my name, don't wear it out.” He arched one brow curiously. “What's wrong _now?_ ”

“Your hand.”

“Oh.” Bill blinked. “Oh.” He relinquished his grip on the knife, watching it clatter to the ground, slick with blood. “Are you happy _now,_ Pines?”

“ _N-no?!_ ” He watched the blond casually poke at the wound in his palm, leaning over to lap at some of the crimson droplets that threatened to spill down his wrist. The sight caused something in Dipper's stomach to twist, breath hitching in his throat, and he refused to allow himself to question why. “Are you... Okay?! That... Your hand is bleeding a _lot;_ it might need stitches. And who even knows what was on that knife?! You could get an infection, or die, or...” The brunet bit his bottom lip, shooting him a pleading look. Bill, in turn, looked about as impassive as possible- bored, even. “You should go to the emergency room for that.”

“Nah.” He continued putting pressure on his palm, causing Dipper to wince. “I'll be fine; don't worry about it.”

“At least let me bandage you up.” Without registering that he was even doing it, he reached out to place a hand on Bill's shoulder, squeezing just enough for the pressure to be noticeable. When the blond shot him a curious look in response to the gesture, he quickly pulled back, suddenly sheepish. “ _Please,_ Bill, my apartment is only a short walk away; it wouldn't take very long.”

He didn't get his answer immediately, his companion seemingly taking time to mull over his options, before finally muttering, “you're just going to keep pestering me about this until I say yes, aren't you?”

Dipper's only response was to nod, eyes steely. 

A sigh, followed by shoulders slumping in defeat. “ _Fine._ ”

___

“It's kind of cluttered.” Dipper said, glancing over his shoulder apologetically as he unlocked the door. There was a package sitting outside, a sight the brunet raised an eyebrow at, but wrote off as something he had probably ordered online; it wouldn't have been the first time he scoured the web for more additions to his collection. 

Bill simply stared blankly at the sight that met him- piles upon piles upon piles of books, some new, but most old- and raised an eyebrow. “ _Kind_ of?”

“Okay,” the brunet stepped inside, nudging the box along with one foot, and waited for his companion to do the same before shutting the door, “it's _really_ cluttered. It's not as bad as it looks, though; I have a system.” He gestured for Bill to follow, weaving around the stacks with the grace of someone who had already committed the layout to memory. 

“You _do_ know that there's a handy invention out there for keeping things of this nature organized, right? They're called _shelves;_ you might wanna look into them sometime.”

“I know, I know.” Not even the kitchen was free of books. It was, however, thankfully less cluttered. Dipper gestured to the table, and Bill pulled out a chair, keeping one hand cupped below the other in a half-hearted attempt to keep from bleeding all over the writer's apartment. “I just haven't gotten around to buying a lot of furniture. Or... Most of the essentials.”

“How _long_ have you been living here again?”

He opened his mouth to respond, frowned, and abruptly turned around instead. “I've been busy.”

Bill hummed under his breath, the noise clearly skeptical. They fell into a silence for a few moments after that, the only sound being Dipper rummaging around the mess for something. “Why do you have so many books?” The blond asked, glancing around for a topic to keep some form of conversation going. “I remember you telling me you collected them, but this is bordering on obsessive.”

“I didn't buy all of them; some were gifts. Birthdays, holidays, that sort of thing. I guess somewhere down the line nearly everyone I knew came to a general consensus that Dipper Pines likes old books and went with it.” He shrugged, placing a purple, sticker-covered first aid kit down on the kitchen table. The impact was apparently enough to jar a few stray flecks of glitter loose, scattering them across the wooden surface like tiny silver stars. “My sister gave it to me before I moved here.” The brunet said in response to Bill's questioning look, opening it up and taking out a roll of bandages. “She claimed I needed something to help take care of me, and because she couldn't be there in person, this was the next best thing.”

“It sounds like the two of you are pretty close.”

“We are.” And then quietly, “I miss her.” Dipper frowned for a moment, before quickly shaking his head. “Can you do me a favor and take your glove off?”

The brunet would have been lying if he tried to say he wasn't at least a little excited when Bill complied. Perhaps he was simply jumping to conclusions, but the man had never actually revealed an inch of skin from his neck down; not a single time had he ever removed his gloves or worn a shirt with short sleeves. His rational side said that was simply because it was getting to be chilly out, and he had every reason to cover up, but the part of Dipper that dwelled on paranoia and conspiracy theories and tinfoil hats said otherwise.

And it turned out, for once, that part of him was correct.

“Oh, wow.” Dipper breathed, eyes fixated on the sight.

Tattoos. 

Dozens of them. 

Circling around his fingers, on every joint, across his palm, down his wrist and continuing underneath the sleeve of his shirt. Bands of black tattoos, some thin, others thick, occasionally broken up by triangles and intricate enough that he felt as though he could stare at them for hours and still discover new patterns and details. Dipper leaned in close to inspect them, suddenly hyperaware of the way Bill's gaze followed him when he moved. “Wow.” He repeated softly, rolling up the blond's sleeve; his shirt was nice, and he assumed Bill probably wouldn't have wanted it to get bloody, but he really just wanted to see how far up the ink went. 

He reached his elbow and saw still no end in sight. Letting go of the fabric, Dipper hesitated, before reaching over to run his fingers across lines of impenetrable black and tan skin. Neither of them chose to comment on the tiny shiver Bill made in response to his touch. “These are amazing.”

The blond didn't say anything for a long while. Dipper wasn't as bothered by the abrupt silence as he usually would have been, far too fascinated by the marks on his skin to notice. “They were gold when I got them.”

“Huh?” He looked up, blinking. Upon closer inspection, the tattoos weren't as solid as they looked at a distance, though he couldn't quite make out what they were supposed to be.

“They were gold. Originally.” His voice was strained, as if he was trying very hard to keep it level.

“Why did you change them?”

Silence, a deep breath, and then quietly, “I didn't. I _never_ wanted to.”

Dipper wasn't quite sure what he was talking about, but he knew an uncomfortable subject when he heard one. Looking around frantically for a distraction, he settled on the first change of topic that came to mind. “So what about your eyepatch?”

“Huh?” Bill blinked, and the brunet gave himself a mental high five on a diversion well done. “What about it?”

“Your eyepatch. You know.” A vague gesture towards his face. “Do you _really_ need it? You strike me as the kind of guy who would wear something like that for kicks.”

A somber look flashed across the blond's features, and for a moment, Dipper feared he had made a mistake by asking. It was gone as soon as it appeared, however, and Bill shot him a playful smile. “You tell me.” He tilted his head far to the side, the thick curls of hair that normally obscured  half of his face falling away. The eyepatch was there, something that Dipper had only managed to catch glimpses of on occasion, along with another detail he had never gotten the opportunity to notice before.

Scars. Jagged, painful-looking scars stretching out from under the black fabric. Dipper paled. “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be.” A shrug. “What's done is done. Now are you just going to stand there and let me bleed, or are you finally ready to patch this sucker up?”

It was only later that he was able to recall what was so strange about Bill's tattoos, what the black bands had been comprised of that seemed so familiar to him.

Runes.

Thousands of them, printed onto his skin so tightly packed they blended into one another.

He had to wonder why.

___

“This is getting old.” Dipper muttered to himself, looking around the featureless, gray expanse that had apparently become all his sleep ever consisted of nowadays. Was this what lucid dreaming was supposed to be like? The brunet wasn't quite sure; he felt pretty lucid, all things considered, but it was difficult to tell.

“I guess I should take Bill's advice and try... Something?” Technically, he didn't really need to talk to himself while he did so, but it made him feel less alone, and it wasn't as though there was anyone else around to judge. Closing his eyes, Dipper took a deep breath before imagining the crowded shelves of the creepy old bookstore Bill had introduced him to. “I want a library.”

There was no sound to indicate anything had happened, but when he opened his eyes again, he was surrounded by bookcases. Tall, crooked and stretching up as far as the brunet could see, they were definitely an interesting sight to behold- and, more importantly, a change from the nothingness he had become accustomed to.

Grinning victoriously to himself, Dipper grabbed the nearest book- _Guide to the Unexplained II: Bigger, Longer and Uncut_ \- and cracked it open, deciding to waste the hours until morning combing through his dream-library. 

The sight that met him dashed that hope, however.

A triangle with a circle in the center. One on every page- one filling every page. Frowning, he tossed the hardcover over his shoulder and grabbed a different book, only to find the same thing when he opened it.

Dipper sighed, feeling both unnerved and frustrated. It figured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else catch the eclipse?
> 
> I was trying to edit this chapter and watch it at the same time. Unfortunately, I'm awful at multitasking. ;w;


End file.
